


Lady in Red

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, Mommy Issues, Older Woman/Younger Man, Rare Pairings, Romance, This is basically 2.6k of fondness for Jon and his dedication to treating women right, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 07:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14515824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: There's something about a younger man, Melisandre thinks as she enters the back of the auditorium and Jon spots her from the stage, a flash of bashful excitement crossing his face before his usual scholarly frown returns.He has the women of the audience in his palm, especially the younger ones who squirm and clutch their slim copies of his latest novel in their laps. But who wouldn't be in love with him - that brooding face, those tight skinny jeans, the glasses he keeps pushing up his nose, the scowl he gives when some imbecile starts the Q and A with "this is more of a comment that a question..."





	Lady in Red

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot was inspired by [this](http://daenerya.tumblr.com/post/162478653230/instagram-au-jon-x-melisandre-game-of-thrones) gorgeous graphic on tumblr.
> 
> Ages: Jon is 24 and Mel is 40.

 

* * *

 

 

 

There's something about a younger man, Melisandre thinks as she enters the back of the auditorium and Jon spots her from the stage, a flash of bashful excitement crossing his face before his usual scholarly frown returns.

He has the women of the audience in his palm, especially the younger ones who squirm and clutch their slim copies of his latest novel in their laps. But who wouldn't be in love with him - that brooding face, those tight skinny jeans, the glasses he keeps pushing up his nose, the scowl he gives when some imbecile starts the Q and A with _this is more of a comment that a question..._

It's not just the stamina that comes with his tender age that Melisandre enjoys, but the reverence he pays her, both with and without her clothes, his worshipful gaze, his fumbling chivalry, how easy he is to tease out of his occasional black moods, the way he _feels_ everything so strongly, purely – and yes, the enthusiasm with which he eats her out – she thinks, lifting up her phone to take a picture of him with the red curtain backdrop that will look perfect on her Instagram feed.

She waits at the back of the room for him to shake well-wishers' hands, sign a few of the girl's novels as they flutter around him and are rebuffed gruffly, and exchange contact details with a couple of other writers, and then he comes strolling towards her looking handsome as ever, satchel over his shoulder and the cashmere scarf she bought him wrapped underneath the lapels of his leather jacket.

He smiles and kisses her on the cheek.

"My brilliant boy," she murmurs, as his mouth quirks.

"Have you had dinner?" he asks, frowning concernedly. 

For someone who, when she first met him, had nothing in his kitchen beyond sriracha and ketchup, and a multipack of fun-size cereals he swore was a gag gift, the boy has taken to her culinary education with aplomb.

"I haven't. Let me treat you," she says, as he puts an arm around her waist and they exit into the foyer of the arts centre.

He shakes his head and smiles softly. "Nope, it's my turn."

"Oh, it is, is it?" she asks.

"Yup," he says, and then kisses her, clutching her to him as the crowd streaming to some other show squeezes past them. He isn't shy of showing his affection like men her age and she loves that about him.

She slides a hand down to palm a firm ass-cheek. "You're sure you'd like to eat out tonight?" she says, "I can cook us something at mine."

"Uh-uh," he says, shaking his head. "My treat."

They get looks as they emerge onto the busy street outside - her in the red dress, boots, coat and scarf that are her trademark; and so obviously older than him - but she's never much cared for the opinions of others.

"One of your friends sent me a curious video this afternoon," she comments once they've taken their seats in the restaurant, as the waiter pours them both the wine she chose, Jon having the palate of a university student and being utterly incapable of choosing a good wine.

"Oh," Jon says, after thanking the waiter, "...which video?" he asks tentatively.

She laughs. "Well, you weren't nude in it, it wasn't one of those videos."

He rubs at the beard she makes him groom at the barbers near her flat.

Jon runs in intellectual circles now, with philosophers and artists and left-wing theorists, but he still meets regularly with his friends from school and army days and they are as rowdy as a rugby team, and just as prone to drinking games. Twice she has picked him up from across London stranded in the street in his boxer-briefs in the aftermath of a goading dare; and she is used to him hammering on her door in the middle of the night having staggered over to hers to fuck her in a delightfully sloppy manner – all rough thrusts, wet kisses and loud groans that he'd be too embarrassed to make were he not drunk – and to eat the sandwiches she makes him to sop up all the cheap alcohol and then drift to a sweaty sleep on her bed while murmuring that he loves her, alright, he loves her so much, she's the best, while she strokes his hair back from his forehead, feeling unbearably fond of her darling boy.

Being young also means that Jon is well-versed in producing his own solo videos for her with his phone which she finds particularly enjoyable - his dark eyes fixed on the camera, his face reddening with the exertion of fisting his cock while he grunts, the muscles of his stomach and arm flexing attractively - but it wasn't one of those videos that Theon sent her.

"There was a microphone involved," she prompts as he seems to mentally scroll down a list of all the embarrassing things he's done with his friends that might have been filmed.

"The karaoke video?" he suggests with a slight wince, as another waiter in an immaculate uniform brings them their starters.

She nods and takes a bite of her Caprese salad.

He coughs and tears a bit of bread, his elbows on the table like a boy who has yet to learn his table manners.

"I thought it was adorable."

"Mel," he says, the tips of his ears blushing.

"Truly." She presses her napkin to her lips to blot the oil and sees his eyes fix on the red of her lipstick. "I might ask for my own private encore."

"No way," he says with a deep laugh. "That was for one night only."

"I didn't know that you sang, darling boy," she says and he scoffs. "Any other hidden talents?" she teases.

He licks his lips and smiles wickedly and now it's her turn to get flustered. "No," he hums, "you know my talents very well."

Oh, but hadn't he been so uncertain at the beginning, so fretful despite his enthusiasm. _Tell me how you like it_ , he'd say, _please, I'm good at taking direction_ , he'd joke but there'd be a hint of truth to it, the ingrained habit of taking orders that the army pressed into him before the army went and broke his heart and he was discharged with terrible injuries that make her want to cry sometimes when she brushes her fingers over them, disillusioned with the forces and with a blistering anger at the powers that be that he channelled into his award winning debut novel, The Night's Watch.

"Was that your first choice of song, or were there others in your repertoire?" she asks him, taking another sip of wine.

"I don't remember," he admits and she laughs. "But I do remember Theon proposing strip-karaoke before I managed to get out of there."

"Poor baby," she says, reaching out across the table to take his hand, "and with you so loathe to take off your clothes."

He laughs again, his mouth curling into that odd downturned smile that she likes so much.

"How was your day?" he asks earnestly, mopping up the dregs of his soup with the bread.

"It was fine."

He frowns. "Fine doesn't sound good."

She shrugs nonchalantly. "I had an email from my agent that was a little disappointing."

"What happened?"

"Oh, just a school cancelling my talk, the usual," she says with a wave of her hand.

Melisandre had started out writing a series of wildly popular memoirs about her experiences with certain eastern religions and their narcotic-fuelled rituals, but since then she's broadened her writing to style and beauty tomes, theological essay collections, and feminist re-imaginings of fairy tales aimed at young adults. But every now and then some parent or school board still gets het up about the fact that she's taken drugs in the past and that she posts what are to them racy images on her Instagram page, or some such nonsense.

"It's fucking ridiculous," Jon says, so vehemently that the grey-haired man at the next table looks over at them disapprovingly. Jon shakes his head. "They're all teenagers, I mean, do parents not know what kids are up to these days? And you know that the books they do have in their school library are full of terrible gender-role crap."

As carefully crafted as his arguments can be, when he gets fired up he sometimes loses all that eloquence, and she finds it terribly endearing.

"Thank you, Jon," she says and squeezes his hand.

"Well it's true, isn't it," he says, downing the rest of his wine. He shakes his head, he's riled up now. "They don't know anything, if they knew what it was like in the army, what they have eighteen-year olds do–" He sucks his teeth, eyes clouded.

"I agree," she says, feeling for him, thinking that she shouldn't have brought this topic up and ruined his good mood.

He rubs his face with his palm. "C'mere," he says suddenly and he leans round the table and kisses her, startling the women next to them into dropping her fork. "I'm sorry, baby," Jon says, cupping Melisandre's face in his hands, "they don't deserve you, none of them do. You saved my life, you know that, right, I was a mess before I met you."

" _Jon_ ," she says.

She had met him for the first time after his debut novel came out, at a literary festival attached to a music festival in the grounds of an old castle, and she had known the minute she saw him across the author's tent that he was hanging by a thread, that he was stuck at the bottom of a hole and couldn't see the way out.

"It's true," he says, "do you remember what you said to me that night?"

 _Jon Snow_ , she had said, _there is power in you, you resist it and that's your mistake_ , kissing him on the cheek in greeting and telling him what she had deduced from a read of his novel on the train over there, while he looked startled and almost open-mouthed in awe.

 _There is only one war_ , she had pronounced, as they drank gin and tonic from paper cups on the dock of a still lake while the roar of the festival hummed behind them and the dusk lit the sky a brilliant orange, _the living against the dead_ , and he had nodded earnestly and said, _exactly, but we hide all that behind_ _platitudes and easy cynicism, don't we_ , and then, noticing her slight shiver, he had stripped off his jumper and offered it to her, even though she told him she ran hot and tried to refuse it, and he sat there for the rest of the night in his short sleeved t-shirt, his pouting profile and those dreamy curls making him look, she remembers thinking, like a classical statue of some young god.

"You were so sure in your opinions," he says, "so luminous. You saw something in me." He swallows and seems to shake himself out of his funk and then looks around to motion for the waiter. "Let's get the bill and go back to yours, order something in if we need to."

"You're sure?"

"I am, you've had a tough day, let me make it up to you at home," he says, voice rough now, eyes sliding down her body.

He takes her hand as they leave, and then curls an arm around her tightly in the street outside, glowering at anyone who gets in their way as they walk to the station. In the tube he stands behind her as they sway with the motion of the carriage, guarding her with his back from the crowd and murmuring filthy things in her ear that make her eyes flutter.

The moment she's opened the door to her flat he pushes her inside and then backs her up against it, dropping to his knees, tugging up the hem of her dress and then mouthing at her mound through the red lace knickers she knows are his favourites.

"Bed," she breathes, fighting out of her coat and scarf, "we should–" her words cut off with a moan as he shoulders her thighs apart and gets his mouth on her cunt, his tongue rough against the lace, the heat of his mouth scorching. "God," she whispers, head tipping back.

"Going to have to tear these, sorry," he grunts and does just that, flinging the knickers away as he brings one leg up over his shoulder and groans into her cunt as she clutches tightly at his curls.

He laves and sucks and rubs his bottom lip against her clit and she comes with a wail and he keeps going until she tells him that her back aches and then he leans back, contrite, his beard glistening with her, his glasses smeared, his lips obscenely red, and she groans and he smiles cockily and then hoists her up in his arms and carries her to her bed, and were she a less experienced woman she might well swoon.

"Where was I?" he asks as he drops her onto the bed with a giggle and crawls up over her, chucking his glasses onto the nightstand and kissing her, cupping a hand behind her head to hold her in place for his mouth, biting at her lips, sucking at her jaw and then peeling her dress down, somewhat clumsily but she'll take enthusiasm over finesse any day, and then tugging off her boots and leaving her naked but for her favourite red necklace.

"God," he grunts, cupping the crotch of the trousers that look entirely too tight.

"Give us a show then, Jon Snow," she says, with a lift of her chin.

He huffs and strips inelegantly, chucking his clothes in a heap behind him that she'll tease him about later, saying that she's not his mother while his cheeks flush ever so slightly.

"Your tits," he groans, staring at her, as he tugs off his boxer-briefs, "you're unbelievable."

"You're not so bad yourself," she says as he clambers up over her and starts sucking at said tits, mouthing at the nipples, tugging them with his teeth.

He likes to fuck her tits, nothing makes him wilder, but he won't do it until he's gotten her off at least twice beforehand, generous to a fault despite the stereotype of selfish young men.

He nips down her stomach, making her jerk and squeal, and then he spreads her thighs again and gets to work, eating her out messily, noisily, perfectly.

His eyes flick up to hers while he does it, a pleasing mixture of cocksure and beseeching.

"Good boy," she says and he groans. "That's perfect," she moans as he lifts her hips up to thrust his tongue deeper.

And then she remembers and, giggling breathlessly to herself, starts to hum a familiar tune.

It takes him a while to notice, since his ears are almost boxed in by her thighs, but when he does and when he recognises the song she's humming, he lifts himself up on his elbows.

"You're terrible," he grins, with a shake of his head, his muscled chest heaving with exertion, "terrible," he pinches her thigh playfully and she laughs.

"Feel free to hum it into my cunt, if you like," she offers.

"I might, you know, don't test me," he says and then dips his head to flick his tongue at her clit, to tease her, as he watches her squirm.

"Do you need a breather, are you out of breath?" she mocks.

He growls and then fits his mouth to her cunt again as her back arches on a whine.

Yes, she thinks, biting her lip, there's something about a younger man.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> trying out another rarepair, please comment if you enjoyed it, I would love to hear from you! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable link for this story [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/173541872047/daenerya-instagram-au-jon-x-melisandre-game-of)


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